


Sure Thing, Darling

by Leara, Mixedia



Category: Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Black Widow - Freeform, Deantasha - Freeform, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:11:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2180946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leara/pseuds/Leara, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mixedia/pseuds/Mixedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of published and unpublished Deantasha stories from my tumblr account. Based on roleplaying between myself and megstielshipper. Typically drabbles of various length.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good Ideas

“Be _still_.” 

“I’m trying—I’m trying—,“ he insisted. 

“Is that **alcohol** I smell on your breath? You _better not_ fuck this up,” she hissed and rolled her eyes. However, she obliged her own request and sat on the cot, elbows propped on her thighs, unmoving, occasionally wincing when the tattoo needle in Dean’s hand wavered from the steady path of the drawn-on sketch. 

The alcohol on her breath helped numb some of the unsteadier movements although she had to admit—and would have, had she not possessed a couple of ounces of restraint—that for an unpracticed tattoo artist, he did get the job done. Or maybe it was the vodka convincing her. 

“Is that lack of faith I hear in your voice?” he countered, and she rolled her eyes again, gritting her teeth, and leaned a bit forward to ease the strain in her lower back muscles, trying hard not to notice the way his unoccupied hand pressed against her skin. 

“Just _hurry up_ ,” she said through a clenched jaw. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d assume that was discomfort in your voice,” he pointed out and tightened his grip in the needle. His hand prevented her from straightening her body to turn around and slap him. 

“Dean….” she warned in a threatening voice that, of course, didn’t fool him. 

“This was _your_ idea, Bambi.” 

“ _Don’t_ call me _that_ ,” Nat growled with rolled eyes as tension passed through her. At this, Dean smirked and she felt his hand tightened, even as it lay across her skin, palm open. She hitched in a drunken breath when he removed the needle, and frowned at his sudden pause (at least when without a remark). “What.” 

His hand, having moved less than an inch over her undressed in drunken appreciation ( _damn_ , having him tattoo at this point was downright irresponsible), was quickly withdrawn in embarrassment or a moment of sobriety. She tilted her head so that she looked back at him, and the annoyed tone faded from her voice. “What is it, Winchester?” 

_Winchester_. The surname was enough to snuff him out of whatever trance he was in. She glared at him from the bent-over position of the desk nearby the tattoo shop’s equipment. 

“Thought I heard something,” he said absentmindedly with a noncommittal shrug after having apparently come to the conclusion that it was nothing. He put the needle to the pattern on her skin and continued the work of tattooing the sigil unto her lower back. She grimaced at the sting and arched her back into his touch, shutting up and focusing on the hum of the needle. Her eyes caught sight of the smashed window of the door and she snorted. 

“What?” he asked, clearly concentrated but there was a trace of amusement in his voice. 

“You broke the door.” 

“No, I broke _the window_.” 

“I could’ve opened the lock. Hell, _you_ could have picked the lock, too,” she assessed, talking into the surface of the desk. A grin entered her voice. “You know, this could look mighty suspicious…” 

He stepped back and raised an eyebrow as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him—and then she heard the low sigh as he took in the view (he’d be foolish not to). She crossed her legs casually, shifting her weight comfortably and sending him a teasingly innocent look although she was well aware of that look that crossed his face and the reason he suddenly felt the need to swallow hard. She turned slowly, raising herself unto the desk gingerly, her jeans scraping against its glass surface as her eyes locked unto his that wandered the outline and details of her bra. 

“Dean,” she said uncertainly to make him snap out of it although the break from the needle was kind of mutually alleviating and throbbing. 

“We need to finish the tattoo,” he insisted, voice oddly hoarse. 

“Probably,” she concurred as his eyes finally reached her face. Off the look on his face, she grabbed for her t-shirt. No need to complicate things. Hell, who was she kidding? They _defined_ complicated. _Continuously_. 

His hand gripped hers and she withdrew it instantly by instinct. He looked hurt by the action of distrust but said nothing. He knew it was a reflex. She didn’t need to explain it. She released the fabric of the shirt and it dropped to the desk beside her. 

“This was your idea, Romanoff,” he teased and she chuckled. 

“Vodka’s wearing off now. Re-assessment: definitely a bad idea,” she concluded tipsily and rested her hands against his clad chest. 

“Well…” he replied sheepishly. “I’m halfway done.” 

Nat gave him a look when his hands found themselves placed at her waist, but more at the unquestionable familiarity of it. “Let’s get it over with, then.”


	2. Drinking (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author of part one: putyourpoisoninmyveins

From time to time they’ll break the antisocial patterns they’ve formed and go out, mostly for drinks in a shady bar that ensures a low-key stay. They’ll place themselves in bar stools and order a beer, or drinks if they are feeling particularly great about themselves, perhaps after a hunt. Dean will eventually insist that Nat have vodka, and she’ll allow herself to be ridiculed by the amusing stereotype if only to see the grimace he always pulls when the liquor travels down his throat and she doesn’t move a muscle. 

After a while, though, she’ll feign drunkenness. Not because she doesn’t appreciate the company or their joking mannerisms, but because one of them will have to stay sober not to crash on a nearby motel bed—they seem to be innumerable around shady bars—and inevitably fall into bed with one another. Because last time she sat down and got wasted with a friend who might mean more, that friend died in the inferno of a fire three days later. She’s never gotten properly intoxicated since. 

Dean will eventually intoxicate himself and she’ll let him after he’s hit on her a couple of times, and every gal in that joint, for that matter, before she’ll grab his sleepy-eyed, horny self and haul it out of the bar, paying their tab, and pushing him into the Impala. 

He’ll allow her to drive it because he won’t really be thinking straight, not straight enough to connect the pieces, and he’ll be too hung-over in the morning to remember how he effortlessly and immediately handed over the keys to his baby to someone who regularly has cars “go missing” whenever she tires of them. And she will try not to think about the amount of trust he has in her when he’s wasted beyond comprehension, as she’ll watch out for deer on the road or drunken teens behind wheels, only to ignore a drunken declaration of something that might stretch across that line they’ve drawn in the sand of the borders of friendship. 

And it almost gets her every time he says those five words she dreads so much. She will tell herself that it doesn’t matter, because he’s drunk and nobody thinks that level of coherent thoughts when they have taken in that many beverages in just short of four hours. 

_Nat, I think I like you._

It’s practically an old routine of theirs by now.


	3. Drinking (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author of part two: Mixedia/megstielshipper

He’d never admit it, not in a million years, but he seriously enjoyed her company. At first it’s just the banter between each other, being in the company of another who knew what lurks in the dark, another hunter that doesn’t want him dead in reality. Often they’re together when they’re celebrating - maybe a successful hunt or some other reason that makes them feel good. The drinks go down easy, the peanuts are always too salty and the chatter never stops. 

Soon enough it turns into giggles, his low, gravelly laugh harmonizing rather well with her girly giggles - which he can never tell whether they’re genuine drunken or faked. He soon finds he’s enjoying being with someone other than Sam or Castiel for a change. Because it’s not Sam he doesn’t have to worry about her - she’s definitely not drinking demon blood, banging another monster and can still look after herself. Because she’s not Cas he can actually laugh - they share a sense of humour most of the time and she understands all his pop-culture references so he’s not spending hours trying to explain what each joke meant before getting the sought after reaction. 

But as the first tiny wave of alcohol hits his brain, he find himself leaning towards her a little more. He starts to notice the way her fire-red hair shines in the lights above the bar, the way her creamy skin is a perfect contrast. He longs to touch it but still manages to keep his hands to himself, amazingly remembering their delicate friendship-not-relationship status. 

In a desperate attempt, he’ll look around the bar for similarities, any similarities - the same colour hair, the same shaped eyes, even tiny details like the same coloured clothes, but the girls were never what he was after. He’d always return to Nat, choking down another vodka and showing his genuine surprise at her ability to inhale the stuff without so much as a twitch at the absurd strength of the liquid burning it’s way down his esophagus. 

Soon enough, the bar would be swimming around him and Nat would heave him onto her shoulder with surprising strength. It was always just as they got out of the door, he’d turn to laugh with her again but instead the breeze would brush a few of the strands of that incredible fire-red across his nose and he would smell her, remember who and what she was and feel impressed with himself that he could keep a girl like her friends with him. 

_Nat, I think I like you._

He would mumble, knowing his words were slurring together horribly and not really paying attention to his hand slipping into his pocket and passing her the keys to his beloved baby. He’d feel a little shock half-way back to their actual motel room at seeing her behind the wheel, but then remember that this was Agent Romanoff, Natasha Romanoff, Nat, his Nat and everything in the world would fall back into place. 

The next day he’d have forgotten all about it with the help of her taunts about his hangovers and the way she would be extra noisy packing up again because she knew his head was killing him from the inside out and they would leave one another, off for separate hunts with the promise they would never do this again because it was just a one off. 

But they always repeat it.


	4. Missing Out On Christmas... Almost

They were so exceptionally tired they didn’t even notice. They simply slammed the doors of the Impala shut and stumbled exhaustedly into the motel room, operating on routine and the enormous desire to sleep after a fifty-hour hunt. 

They slept in a puppy pile, not caring where one ended and the other began, and it was Nat who emitted the first groan in the morning—well, all things considered, “morning” was relative, and the ray of sunlight that seemed to pierce her eyelids seemed to think so. Despite the fact that his hand was draped over her lower back and she was—from a purely objective view, of course—snuggled into him, it wasn’t a complaint but in fact a very sleepy observation upon seeing the date on the bedside clock. “Did we sleep through Christmas?” 

Dean blinked twice before the words sunk in and realization passed through his features. He jerked from the bed as if a nightmare, nearly stumbling and falling in the sheet. “What time is it?” 

Nat wasn’t entirely unsurprised by his sudden awakening. Of course, Christmas meant little to her—without family it was sort of irrelevant, one of those days where she could simply purchase awkward sweaters instead of plain ones—but she understood. He had a brother whom he’d probably promised his presence to. She took no offense. She consulted with the watch. 

“Three,” she informed him, and upon grimacing, added, “P.M.” 

Dean’s body released some of the tension. Ah, so his plans were not immediate. He slipped back into the bed to find the same warm spot where he’d been lying, and only then thought to consider the fact that he’d actually been sleeping _across_ her. When he made the deduction, she merely looked at him boredly and subsequently buried her head once more in the pillows of the bed, indifferent to his bodily appearance. 

Nat huffed when he attempted to steal the covers. “No-uh, Winchester. You got up first,” she murmured, muffled, from the pillow as she wrapped the covers tighter around her and used herself as deadweight. She felt herself be dragged dangerously close to the edge in response and groaned, finally raising her head from the pillow. “What.” 

Dean smirked and shook his head as if a bit embarrassed by his observation. “You’re so cute when you get all tired.” 

Nat threw a pillow in his direction. “ _Shut up_ ,” she growled. “None of us were cute last night when we had had monster guts all over.” 

He snorted in fellow compassion and reached to move something out of her hair. “Speaking of which, I think you still… ehm, have something.” He made a pointy gesture and Nat reluctantly allowed him to pick out the piece of carcass. 

“I hate guts,” she said broodingly and sighed, swinging her legs off the bed to go get a shower. She was surprised when she felt Dean’s arms wrap around her waist and drag her back. “What, Winchester?” 

“Nothing,” he shrugged. “Just, have I told you how much I like huntin’ with you?” 

Nat rolled her eyes at his sentimentality. “Feeling’s mutual, but let’s not make it something it’s not. You hunt with your brother—“ She climbed out of bed and putted on her sweater, “—and occasionally, I call when I find your company useful,” she concluded with a smirk. 

“When you feel like being a human being, you mean,” Dean corrected her, eyeing her body. His glance was somewhat reproachful but he knew not to make a big deal out of it. Neither of them was clingy, and they liked the simplicity of being able to call upon the other without admitting neediness. 

Nat shrugged. “I needed you for this job, didn’t I?” she said, winking as she made it to the bathroom. 

“You tell yourself that, sweetheart!” Dean called out and smiled, groaning before rejoining the bed’s warm covers. 

The huntress exited the shower and bathroom five minutes later, her red hair piled atop her head, dressed in clothes that were suspiciously clean. 

“Where are you headed?” Dean asked curiously, frowning when he saw she was collecting her stuff. 

She picked up her dirty clothes and grimaced, fingers preoccupied as she spoke. “Around. I’m not heading out yet. But you are,” she informed him matter-of-factly, looking at him pointedly. 

“I am?” 

She nodded and sat on the bed. “Yes you are. Your brother is waiting for you somewhere. God knows where, but I know you rolled up from at least a three-hour ride, so you need to get going if you plan to spend it with him.” 

“I can stay for a couple of more hou—,” Dean began, reasoning, but her look verbally disarmed him. He got up. “Okay.” 

She looked at him as if not quite believing him, but said nothing. Her facial expression softened at his compliance. ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed, and he almost asked what for, except he already kind of knew. 

When he left, she was leaning against the doorframe, smiling subtly, hip casually swung to the side. She didn’t seem too surprised when he quickly pressed a kiss to her lips, but smirked vaguely when they pulled apart, slapping him playfully on the ass to get him going. 

“Go celebrate Christmas, home boy,” she called after him. 

“You know,” Dean suggested, “You could always come with me.” 

Nat rolled her eyes and looked at him with a slight snort. “Yeah, and how would you explain me to your brother? Thanks but I’ll decline the offer. Not really a Christmas person,” she replied, balancing her duffel of gear on her shoulder as she watched him get into the Impala. 

“Pretty sure I could make you one, Romanoff,” Dean said back, a half challenge on his face. 

“The answer’s still no, Winchester.” 

He shrugged and got in, watching her straddle the bike. “I thought you said you weren’t sentimental,” he said, referring to the bike’s permanence in her life. It had lasted at least three months. 

Nat shrugged noncommittally, nonchalantly. “Maybe I’m still taking it for test rides,” she informed him ambiguously with a gleam in her eye. “It’s proven useful.” 

Dean chuckled and looked down. “Well, let me know how that test driving works out.” 

“Oh, Dean, you’ll be the first to know.” The engine sprung to life. “Merry Christmas, Winchester.” 

Dean was still chuckling by the time the redhead had driven from the parking lot, smirking to himself and shaking his head in amusement.


End file.
